


Reflections in Blood

by thetimegoddessof221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Assassin - Freeform, Assassin AU, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Cop John Watson, Cops, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Secret Identity, Sherlock AU, Sherlock assassin, Suspense, keeping secrets, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2086086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetimegoddessof221b/pseuds/thetimegoddessof221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a man of many faces. To his new flatmate, the incredibly sharp cop John Watson, he is an aspiring forensic scientist. But what John doesn't know is that while he's investigating several mysterious "ghost victims", Sherlock is the one cutting them down one by one. Sherlock my have the brightest mind of his time, but how long can he keep his assassinations a secret from the cop living under his own roof?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Please, please I-I have kids, a family!" A man, crumpled in defeat and pain, lay broken and beaten on the cement. The man's pleas didn't even dent the iron casing that had grown around Sherlock's heart. He looked down at the defenseless man with disgust, no man, guilty or not, family or not, should use another's existence to beg for his own life.

"Those children will be better off without your scum around," he sneered. Without another word he arched the knife cupped in his hand, and with the gracefulness that comes only from extended practice, Sherlock slit the mans throat. A line of scarlet arced through the air and followed the path of his knife, splattering on the ground like a brushstroke from a painter's hand.

The victim slumped to the ground, a wet gurgle emanating from his lacerated throat. A red river flowed along the ground in intricate swirls and elegant curves that inevitably led it to the gutter just a few feet away. Sherlock leaned down indifferently and wiped his blade on the dead mans shirt before replacing it in the carefully concealed sheath hidden between the folds of his coat. Another job done and more money to pay off the rent.

* * *

 Sherlock heard John coming long before his rhythmic thumps sounded on the stairs. Sherlock made one last sweep around the flat to reassure that all of the "tools of his trade" were safely stored away before slumping down in his favorite armchair and waiting for the onslaught of verbal abuse that was sure to come.

John's footsteps paused outside the door for just a brief second before he burst into the flat in a fury. Sherlock didn't flinch as John stomped past him, cursing under his breath and clenching his fists so hard his knuckles were white. Sherlock sank further into his chair, must've been a hard day at the station.

"Where, the bloody hell, were you last night, Huh?" John spun towards him, obviously trying to keep his anger in check.

"Working."

John let out a small laugh and rubbed his jaw with the palm of his hand. "Right. 'Course you were. More of your, what was it, "aspiring forensic research" I assume."

This was as anxious as Sherlock had ever seen him, something major must've happened. "It was," he kept his answers short and emotionless as always, he needed to be as distant from John as possible without pushing him away. "What happened at the station now? Something serious obviously."

John clenched and unclenched his fists a few more times and turned back toward the kitchen. "They found another one. Another bloody ghost." He banged his fist against the table resulting in a large crash as a beaker shattered on the ground. Well Mrs. Hudson wasn't going to like that one bit.

"No trace of them anywhere? Nothing at all?" Sherlock leaned forward in pretend interest, he had to pretend to be interested to be sure that John never suspected him.

"Nothing. But enough with the questions, I'm not supposed to be sharing any of this at all, remember our agreement."

Upon becoming flat mates with each other three weeks ago they had both agreed that since John was a cop and Sherlock tended to keep to himself, that neither of them would dig into each other's professional affairs. For all John knew, Sherlock was an aspiring forensic scientist studying privately with a professional tutor.

Even with the agreement, it was nearly impossible not to gleam at least a little about what went on in their work lives, and Sherlock was more observant than most. John and a team of investigators had been trying to unravel the mysteries of these "ghost victims". These seemingly unrelated incidents have been occurring around London for about a month. Every time the body would be found by the police and they would attempt to identify it, to no avail. Even after questioning the friends and family of the victim and getting a name, when the police go to look them up no files can be found. It's like the victim simply didn't exist, there's no birth certificate, no registration, no identification of any kind. They're ghosts. But Sherlock knew better, all of the victims did have a connection, he had been the one to dispose of them all.

Sherlock's eyes followed John as he made his way to his room. As soon as he heard the click of John's door locking Sherlock uncrossed his legs and scrambled over to his laptop. Opening it up he checked his email for updates, there was one unread message from an untraceable sender.

_"Everything out here is well and done. Hopefully the next time a name comes you will hurry and come along too. Don't try to ask too many questions!"_

To the untrained eye it might look like a message from some distant family member commenting on his studies. But Sherlock spotted the pattern immediately: a skip code.

_" **Everything** out here **is** well and **done**. Hopefully the **next** time a **name** comes you **will** hurry and **come** along too. **Don't** try to **ask** too many **questions**!"_

Another order from his employer. Sherlock let out a heavy breath and leaned back in his chair, deleting the message immediately. In his line of work you don’t ask many questions, but it doesn’t keep you from wondering. He had no clue why he was being asked to dispose of all these people, and quite honestly he didn’t care, but he was exceedingly curious as to why all of their files were being wiped afterward but their corpses left alone. Usually Sherlock would make a point to clean up his own mess, so to speak, but his employer's new, and somewhat surprising, orders had been clear: leave the body untouched and let them do the rest.  


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he jerked awake, he had heard a sound from his right. He was out of his bed and on his feet within a matter of seconds, adrenaline rushed through his veins as his eyes darted around the room, looking for the source of the disturbance. A little flash of light caught his eye and he spun towards it, arms raised and fists clenched in a fighting stance. It was his phone, a light was flashing to signal he had a text. He let his arms drop and groaned; sometimes an assassin's reflexes were more of a nuisance than an advantage.

 He picked up his phone, taking deep soothing breaths to control the left over spouts of adrenaline. The text was short and to the point:

  _"Go outside. Get in the car. We need to talk. -M"_

 Sherlock deleted the text and rubbed his face, did he really have to meet with him at two in the morning? He could barely stand him when he was fully awake.

 In less than two minutes Sherlock was dressed and waiting on the curb outside of 221b. He brushed his hand along the hilt of his dagger hidden up his sleeve, making sure the straps were secure. A black unmarked vehicle rolled to a stop in from of him and he wordlessly climbed in, a black suited companion waited for him in the back seat.

 "Good morning Mr. Holmes. My employer hopes you had a restful slumber." The man’s voice was smooth and emotionless, another one of his employer's mindless drones. There would be no use trying to get any information from him.

 "I didn't," Sherlock responded curtly. "Why the sudden need to talk to me? And at such an early hour, I thought he hated mornings."

 "He does, sir. But he ensured me that this was of the upmost importance."

 Sherlock harrumphed and leaned back into the plush leather seat. It was useless trying to look out the window, they were tainted black on both sides to keep you from knowing where you were. But Sherlock didn't need to see outside to know his location; he knew exactly where he was going.

The car rolled to a gentle stop and someone opened the door for him. A familiar wooden door, barely visible in the soft lighting of the street lamps, stood in front of him. He pushed it open soundlessly and made his way through the many crisscrossing hallways of the complex. A guide followed him helplessly, Sherlock had no need of him, he had traveled this path many times.

 Reaching his destination, a large varnished wooden door with a brass knocker, he promptly knocked and proceeded to walk in without a reply.

 "Hello brother, at least you knocked this time before barging in."

 His older brother Mycroft stood with his back turned to him as he looked out the window dramatically. He always did love to be dramatic.

 "Hello Mycroft. Why the early wakeup call? I had a long day yesterday you know, assassinations can be so tiring." Sherlock walked to the front of the desk behind Mycroft. He had his hands clasped behind his back and was fingering the hilt of his dagger, just because they were brothers didn't mean Mycroft would show him any less mercy than one of his many other employees.

 "There's no need for that here," Mycroft commented as he turned to face Sherlock, motioning to the sleeve where the dagger was hidden. "I didn't bring you here to dispose of you."

 Sherlock stopped fiddling with his weapon. "Then why did you being me here?"

 "To talk, just like I said." Mycroft sat down behind the desk and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. "Tea?"

 "I'd rather not," he sat down and waited for Mycroft to explain.

 "Suit yourself," Mycroft responded as he poured himself a cup. "How's John doing?"

 Sherlock was taken aback by the random question. "He's fine. Since you arranged for him to become my flat mate I've managed to gleam much more about what the police know about our agreements."

 "That's good," Mycroft said listlessly. "But I was rather hoping you'd be more careful than you have been. John's getting close, Sherlock. Far too close for comfort." Mycroft leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. "We've been doing our part, all the records have been removed, but you're not cleaning up after yourself these past few kills. Why? Are you trying to get us caught?"

 Sherlock blinked in surprise, "Because you told me not to."

 "I did no such thing. Why the hell would I tell you to do that?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes, distrust dripped from his words.

"How would I know? You're the one that tells me not to ask questions." Sherlock was starting to get frustrated, he hated always doing what he was told and this was the thanks he was getting for it? His fingers twitched and he itched to whip out his knife and slit his brother's throat there and then.

 "Well I didn't tell you to. So unless you're trying to sabotage this mission on purpose, which I think is unlikely, someone else is pulling at strings." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, obviously deep in thought. "But who?"

 Just then Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket: a text from a blocked sender. He took it out and immediately after reading it he jumped to his feet with his weapon drawn.

  _"It was me."_

 Mycroft also shot to his feet, "what does it say?"

Sherlock wordlessly passed him the phone, he was searching everywhere for any kind of camera or microphone. A tiny sliver of black caught his eye. The bookshelf. A wire was carefully concealed along the edge of the wood and a tiny microphone just barely poked out from behind a shelved book. Sherlock quickly cut the microphone free of the cord, severing the connection.

"It seems," Mycroft said slowly, "we have an enemy."

"It would seem so. Try and see if you can trace where the signal was going, I have to get back to the flat or John will start getting suspicious."

Sherlock made to leave but Mycroft grabbed him by the sleeve. Sherlock spun around and reflexively held the knife up to his brother's throat.

"Don't startle me like that Mycroft," he growled.

Mycroft held his hands up, "My apologies, I sometimes forget how skittish you can be. I was merely going to tell you that I will be contacting you from my personal phone now, so you can always be sure it is me."

Sherlock nodded and released Mycroft. The elder brother straightened out his jacket and motioned for Sherlock to leave. The black car was waiting for him as he exited the building and he quickly slipped in and made his way back to Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had the car drop him off a few streets away from 221B, just to be safe. As he walked up to his flat he saw a glimmer of light coming from the living room window. Shit.

It was 3:47 am as he pushed open the door to the flat. John was sitting at his computer, he looked up as Sherlock entered.

"Where were you this early in the morning?" John tried to sound disinterested and he focused back on his computer screen, but Sherlock could tell he was itching to find out what he had been up to.

He needed a convincing lie, and quick. He said the first thing that came to mind, "Visiting family. My cousin is ill." As soon as it left his lips Sherlock knew it didn't sound convincing, not enough emotion. He tried to conjure up some fake tears to make up for his slip. It was too early for this.

Well whatever he did seemed to work. "Oh, Sherlock I'm sorry to hear it." John's face immediately softened. Hook line and sinker.

"Could I help at all? I was a doctor before I was a cop, you know." John was honestly trying to be kind.

"Really? Your resumé must be very impressive Mr. Watson." Of course Sherlock had already deduced that he had been a doctor, an army doctor in fact, but John wouldn't have expected him to know that. So he had to act surprised, or at least interested, at the news.

"Just John, call me John."

"Alright, John, thank you for the offer but I'm afraid you won't be able to help much. She's beyond medical assistance." Sherlock's eyes welled with fake tears and he quickly turned away from John as if to not let him see.

"I was very good," John tried to console Sherlock, "I'm sure I'd be able to do something. Even if it only eases her suffering."

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder. John was really trying hard to comfort him, or expose his lie. But he sounded genuine enough. "Thank you, but we've already done all we can for her. She won't last much longer as it is." A stiff tone crept into his voice, he was getting tried of this useless ramble. He should've picked a subtler lie to hide his disappearance.

John quickly took his hand off Sherlock, realizing his mistake. "Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude."

Sherlock nodded his understanding and decided now would be an opportune time to try and discover a little more of what John knew. "Why are you up so early then?"

John sighed and sat back behind his laptop. "Just work stuff."

Sherlock knew he should leave it at that but he would never have a better opportunity than now to dig deeper. "You know, as a forensic scientist, I'm very well aquatinted with police work. Perhaps I can be of assistance."

"Forensic scientist in _training_ ," John corrected him.

"Well, yes, but I like to think I'm ahead of my class." Sherlock tried to put as much charm and friendliness into his voice as he could muster, this was certainly out of his comfort zone.

John sighed again, "Well, I can certainly use all the help I can get on this bloody case."

Sherlock's heartbeat skipped a beat, maybe he was better at this "conversation" thing than he thought.

"Alright so what do you have," Sherlock tried to keep the excitement from entering his voice as he walked up behind John and looked at his screen. It was a picture of the man that Sherlock had slit the throat of just last night. "Is that another of those ghosts you keep talking about?"

"Yeah," John rubbed the back of his head. "Do you recognize him?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Never seen him in my life. Who is he?" Sherlock was genuinely intrigued at this point. He never got to know who his victims were, personally, that is. He was told their schedules so that he would know when and where to dispose of them but no more than that.

"His name is Stan Hughson," John continued, "he was a standard guy in his late forties, worked at a local bank, had two daughters and a wife, and according to them he had no criminal record. All his friends and family said he was a nice guy, no enemies at all. There is absolutely nothing remarkable about him, but someone took the time to kill him. Why?"

Sherlock was starting to get invested, which he knew was a horrible idea, but he couldn't help it. He was only told who to kill, not why, maybe he would get a chance to discover the motive for once. "Any religious beliefs that could've caused someone to want him dead?"

"None at all. But the motive isn't even the biggest question," John turned in his chair to face Sherlock. "Why would the murderer just leave the body there? Whoever commented the crime was obviously good at what they did, so why not hide the evidence?"

"I don't know," Sherlock responded more to himself than to John. Suddenly, Sherlock had an idea. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to use this case and his new friendship with John to track down the person who was sabotaging his mission. The brilliant idea nearly made him break out of character.

Sherlock stifled a fake yawn looked at the clock. "I think I'll be of better service to you when I'm fully awake. Let me get some more sleep and then we can talk about the case more."

John nodded in agreement and waved Sherlock off. "Of course. Sleep sounds like an excellent idea, I think I'll turn in in just a few minutes myself."

Sherlock forced himself to yawn again as he walked over to his bedroom. "Goodnight John," he called over his shoulder.

"Goodnight Sherlock," came the muffled reply. Sherlock closed his bedroom door behind him and grinned. Things might be looking up.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Sherlock was up and dressed by 5:40 am. He hadn't slept at all since meeting with Mycroft, with John's case running through his head all night it was impossible to keep his imagination from going wild. He was pleased to see that the new name hadn't come in yet, so he'd have some time to consult with John and his developments.

Opening the bedroom door and walking towards the kitchen for some breakfast, Sherlock saw that John was still in the exact same position that he was at three in the morning.

"Couldn't sleep?"

John's head snapped up from his laptop and he locked eyes with Sherlock. "Jesus, don't scare me like that, nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"My apologizes," Sherlock made a cup of tea and sat down in his armchair. John was looking worn, there were bags under his eyes and he slouched in his chair in the most depressing way Sherlock had ever seen. "Any advancements since last night?"

"No, none." John shot him a side glance and stopped typing. "Sherlock, about last night..."

"Yes?"

"I shouldn't have said anything, I overstepped my bounds and discussed police business with an civilian. I'm sorry, but I won't be able to consult with you anymore." John looked down at his keyboard. "And if you could forget what I told you, I'd appreciate it."

Sherlock blinked in surprise, but he nodded. "That's fine, I understand. I had hoped that you would allow me to help but police rules are police rules..."

John hesitated, "Yeah, I suppose,"

"I just know that you and Scotland Yard haven't been able to come up with much," Sherlock continued, "so I figured you could use all the help you could get. Oh well though," He picked up a book and pretended to read it.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. John cleared his throat. Right on cue.

"You know, you're right." John said, standing up. "We can use all the help we can get. I understand why that rule is in place but you're a trained professional for God's sake!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I thought I was still 'in training'?"

John waved it off, "You will be soon enough. They've got to make an exception for this. I'll demand it myself."

Sherlock tried to hide his smug grin "You would do that, for me? I would be most grateful,"

"Of course. I need your help Sherlock, I really do,"

"I'm flattered John, thank you," He did smile now "I won't let you down,"

"I hope not." John sat back down, but there was an energy to his posture now. "So, I haven't got any closer to finding out why Hughson was murdered, but I did manage to find a picture where something was sticking out of his pocket. I was going to head down to the morgue to take a look, care to join me?"

"I most certainly would," Sherlock jumped up off the armchair and grabbed his coat off the hook. "Oh, this is more excitement than I've had in weeks!"

John laughed under his breath, and Sherlock knew he had him hooked.

.~.~.~.

The morgue was a dreary place, full of death and horrendous smells. Sherlock loved it. The lie that he told John about being a forensic scientist wasn't complete nonsense. In order to be as good as he was with sly assassinations, he had to know exactly how a forensic team would analyze his crime scene. Plus, with knowledge of various methods to kill someone; identifying the method used, and possibly who used it, came easy. So in a way, he was a forensic scientist, he was just causing the murders as opposed to solving them.

His and John's footsteps echoed through the morgue like the march of death itself. The steady rhythm matched Sherlock's heart beat as they finally came upon Hughson's metal casket. John unhooked the lock and slid the corpse out on squeaking rollers. Sherlock recognized him instantly. The huge gash that tore through his throat and hung dangling open like a second mouth had been cleaned out, but Sherlock could still see the blood spurting out in a feeble fountain as the man slumped twitching to the ground. He could feel the weight of the knife in his hand and the resistance of the fragile skin as he opened up the man's throat. He could hear his pathetic pleas and gurgled screams so vividly that he half believed his lacerated throat was sputtering right next to his head-

"Sherlock?!"

A hand on his arm. Instincts ripped his arm from the unknown grasp and spun him backward and into a fighting stance.

"Jesus-bloody-Christ!" John was standing shocked with his arm still outstretched.

Sherlock blinked and relaxed his pose. "Sorry, I - um, it's reflex."

"That was brilliant," John had lowered his arm but still looked at Sherlock in shock. "Where'd you learn reflexes like that? Hardly seems like something a forensic scientist would need to know,"

Sherlock knew he needed to remedy this quick. "I had troubles at home," Vague and uninviting to ask more about. Perfect.

"Oh," John focused back on the stiff. "I'm sorry,"

"It's fine," Sherlock walked back to the examination table and made a mental note to try and avoid physical contact so he wouldn't make the same mistake again. "So this is our man, that's quite a nasty gash."

"Yeah, he would've bled out pretty quickly. Absolutely brutal," The snap of John's latex gloves reminded Sherlock to don his as well.

He nodded. "So where is this object you saw?"

John went around to the other side of the table and reached into the man's left jean pocket. "Ah here, this is what I saw." He pulled out a wrinkled bloodied piece of paper and began carefully unfolding it.

John stared at it and shook his head. "I don't understand."

"May I see?" Sherlock asked, reaching for the paper.

"Fine. See if you can make any bloody sense of it."

John gave him the paper and Sherlock read it closely.

" _An older brother, sending the younger to work? In such a gruesome way? Tisk tisk. How sloppy you've been. The time ticks by...and I grow ever closer."_

It was for him, that much he could tell. Some how, the fiend that was interfering with the assassinations had known Sherlock would come look at the body. How could he have known though? He hadn't even decided himself until recently. And to top it off, this hadn't been in Hughson's pocket when he killed him. Sherlock always went through his victim's pockets, to make it look more like a mugging and to remove any evidence that might be there. This note wasn't in that pocket last night, which means the author had waited for him to leave and then slipped in the note.

"Got anything?" John was searching in Hughson's other pockets now.

"No, not much." Sherlock flipped the note over and studied the back. "This note must've been for the killer, but it had to have been written after the murder had already taken place. The part about being sloppy, that must be referencing how the body wasn't cleaned up. Which the author obviously couldn't have known until after the crime had already happened."

John nodded, "Makes sense to me. But why leave a note at all? How would he know the killer would get it? _Did_ the killer get it? There's still too many questions."

"There's more," Sherlock knew he had to be careful here, he wanted to help John but he had to make sure he didn't give himself away in the process. "The references to the brothers is interesting. I can't tell if this author meant it literally, or if he's alluding to something else entirely, which could be very possible, seeing how clever they've been so far."

"Is it possible they could be another cop?" John looked deep in thought, "I mean, it sounds as if they're trying to stop the killer as well, doesn't that mean they're on our side?"

"I doubt it. If they were police why would they have waited until the victim was already dead? No, they are something else, something more sinister..." Sherlock trailed off, deep in thought.

"Well, let's take the brothers literally for now. This means that the older brother is in charge, he's at the top of this whole mess, so that means the younger is our killer." John paused, "It doesn't give us much, but it's something."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement, still scrutinizing the note.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock looked up to see John's hand outstretched.

"The note, please, I need to check for prints."

"Right," Sherlock said as he regretfully passed back the note, "Here."

"This is a good start Sherlock, we're getting places, I can feel it!" John exclaimed over his shoulder, his voice echoing eerily in the empty morgue as he walked towards the exit.

"Indeed, I think we are." Sherlock mumbled to himself as he took one last look at his most recent victim before turning on his heel and following John out.


	5. Chapter 5

"You're doing what?!"

Sherlock was sitting with his legs up on top of Mycroft's desk, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his knife. "I am helping John with his case."

"Why."

It wasn't a question, it was a demand, one that Sherlock decided to ignore.

"Sherlock," Mycroft leaned his hands on the desk and settled into his familiar 'don't cross me' stance. "Why. Are. You. Helping him."

Sherlock sighed and removed his feet from the desk. "Because I thought it would tick you off, obviously. That is my sole purpose in life, you know."

"I'm serious Sherlock," Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back now. "If anyone else had done something like this, they'd already be dead. But I'm giving you an opportunity, Sherlock: make the right choice."

"I'm helping John with the case because it might benefit us." Sherlock matched Mycroft's stance and stared him down. "I believe I can use this case, and use John, to find out who is interfering with our arrangements."

Mycroft slammed his hand down on the table. "Or, you could get us both caught and hung!"

Sherlock cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at his brother. "I know what the risks are. But if we don't get this problem solved we could be in much more trouble than an inquiry by the police."

Mycroft rubbed his face with his hands. "This is very, very risky."

"I know."

"If this falls through, you take the blame. All of it. Do you understand Sherlock? No mention of me, or of anyone else in this organization. I don't care what they do to you to try and make you talk, you say nothing."

"Understood."

"Then fine," Mycroft waved Sherlock off. "Go play your little detective game. But don't count on me to bail you out when it goes wrong."

Sherlock nodded and slipped the knife back into his sleeve. "Until next time, brother dear."

"I wouldn't be so sure there will be a next time if I were you."

Mycroft's words stuck to his heels as he let himself out.

.~.~.~.

"No, no no no. No! You can't just do that!"

Sherlock heard John yelling before he even made it up the steps.

"No! Fuck you and your superiors! I'm moving forward and neither you nor your bosses can stop me!"

Sherlock cracked the door to their flat open and saw John with his back to him clenching his left fist while nearly crushing his phone with the other.

"What happened?" Sherlock inquired quietly.

John hung his head and took three deep breaths before responding. "They are stopping the investigation."

"What?" For the first time since working with John, Sherlock was genuinely shocked. "Why?"

"They said that the police are wasting their resources trying to decode this mess of a case and it's better to just wait until the killer makes a mistake before continuing to investigate." John was fuming, his face was flushed and Sherlock could tell that he would not hesitate to strike out at anyone foolish enough to cross him right now.

"But how will we know when he makes a mistake, if we aren't paying attention?"

"Exactly! But I was told that it was a command from his 'superiors' and there was nothing he could do about it!" John walked over to the couch and threw his phone on the coffee table.

"Superiors huh? Who, exactly, are these mysterious 'superiors'?" Sherlock sat down stiffly in his armchair.

John shrugged. "I don't know. No one seems to bloody know. Someone with a lot of power, obviously."

Sherlock sat stock still. Son of a bitch. "Is there anyway I could help?"

John shook his head. "No. And guessing by the way I reacted, I doubt I'll have anymore cases to work on for a very, very long time." He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face.

"Hm," Sherlock got up and straightened his suit, John didn't even lift his head.

Sherlock made his way to his room as calmly as he could and closed the door behind him before taking his phone and typing in the familiar number.

"I didn't expect to hear from you so soon, little brother."

"What did you do?" Now Sherlock was the one who was fuming.

"Well, since you wouldn't end your little adventure yourself, I had to do it for you."

"I thought you were going to let me make my own decision for once."

"Oh little brother," Sherlock could practically hear him smirking, "the risk was too big. To the whole of the organization, and to you. Regardless of what you might think of me, I do care for your safety."

"Bullshit. You're just trying to keep me line, like a good little puppet."

"Think what you want, it won't change anything."

Sherlock clenched his fist so hard he could feel his fingernails pierce his palm.

"There, see?" Mycroft was just gloating now. "There's a good soldier."

"I'm done being your soldier, Mycroft." Sherlock spat and hung up.  

"Sherlock?" John was calling for him. He cleaned up his hand as best he could and exited his bedroom.

"Sherlock," John was standing in the middle of the room with his coat on. "I'm going to continue the case. I don't expect you to come with me, I don't want you to get into trouble with the police. Thank you for your help."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and cocked his head at John. "Save your thanks."

"Right," John looked down and puckered his lips. "Well then I'll-"

"I said save your thanks, because I still have help to offer. I'm coming with you."

John blinked, stuttered, and blinked again. "I can't ask you-"

"You aren't asking me, and I'm not asking you. I'm telling you: I'm coming."

John grinned, "Alright then. Let's go."

"Lets go," Sherlock agreed as they headed out the door.

.~.~.~.

John and Sherlock walked out onto Baker Street and started heading towards the alley where the murder took place. John was walking up ahead of Sherlock when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Making sure John was far enough ahead that he wouldn't notice, Sherlock slipped his phone out and saw that he had a text from a blocked number.

_"You think you're clever, using your little police buddy. But you won't find me. Not ever. So I suggest discarding this whole plan of yours before you force me to do something...unpleasant."_

Sherlock deleted the text and smiled. Whoever they were, they were scared. John turned down the alley and Sherlock followed. Simultaneously Sherlock felt his phone vibrate again and heard a gunshot. John screamed and clutched his side.

"John!" Sherlock ran to him and managed to prop him up before he fell to the ground. "John, where are you hurt?"

"Side." John was panting, blood spilled from the right side of his torso, a little below the ribs. "Just...just a scratch. Bullet passed...right through."

Sherlock set John on the ground and helped him lean up against the wall of the cramped alley. "I'm going to find the shooter."

"No," John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve to prevent him from leaving. "They'll be long gone...by now."

Sherlock glanced at John's hand gripping his sleeve. "I'll just be a minute, I promise."

John let go and slumped a little farther down the wall.

Sherlock sprinted down the alley towards where the sound came from. Judging by the angle of the gash and how it was tilted on a diagonal, they must have been shooting from on top of one of the buildings. He skidded to a stop in front of a fire escape and jumped, his fingertips barely grabbed hold of the first rung. He pulled himself up and started his ascent. Sherlock felt right at home dashing across the rooftops, but instead of chasing a victim he was chasing a killer, how the tables had turned. There was no one around, not even a sign of anyone. Regretfully, he made his way back down to John.

"I told you...no one would be up there." Even when shot in the side John still seemed to have the energy to say 'I told you so'.

Sherlock kneeled down and moved John's hand that was keeping pressure on the wound. He gingerly lifted up the side of John's shirt and took a sharp inhale of breath, it was far deeper than he had thought. But thankfully, the bullet had only grazed him. The large gash was clean cut and carved a smooth red ravine from John's lower back diagonally up until the bottom of his last rib. He could see his muscles expanding with every jagged breath as blood trickled onto the cement.

"Give me your jacket." Sherlock helped John get it off and then crumpled it into a ball. "This is going to hurt."

John tensed and clenched his muscles, causing a large spurt of blood, as Sherlock pressed the jacket against the wound.

"Hold it." Sherlock let John keep pressure on the wound as he dialed for an ambulance. Tucked in a corner against the brick wall, something shiny caught his eye. Sherlock stealthily picked it up and slipped into his coat pocket. "Just stay with me John, keep your eyes on me, focus."

John's eyelids drooped and his eyes rolled back into his head.

"John!"


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was sitting in the waiting room at the hospital, listlessly directing his glance at the other few people in the room. One woman was crying silently, tears speckled her cheeks as she clutched a small childs toy in her right hand. A man and woman sat across from her, holding hands while the woman tried to comfort the man. A redheaded child sat a few chairs to his left with his head hung low and was swinging his legs back and forth above the ground. A grieving mother, a parentless husband, and a soon to be orphaned child. What pitiful company.

John would be fine, he lost a lot of blood but the bullet didn't hit anything vital, he just needed stitches. Slipping his fingers into his pocket he took out the shiny object he picked up: the bullet. It was for a sniper rifle, the familiar boat­tail gave it away, a .300 Winchester Magnum. Judging by how comparatively quiet the gunshot was and this type of bullet it must've been a stealth rifle, but one that could take down any large or small target. There were many guns that could use this bullet, as it was a very common choice for any big game hunter, but the sound the shot made made most resembled that of a DTA SRS­A1 Rifle. Sherlock had used the gun before, it was one of the most versatile stealth rifles in the world, and could be used in a variety of ways. Smart gunman. The range on such a gun could be anywhere from 500 to nearly 2000 yards, so even if the sniper was still in place by the time Sherlock reacted, he would've been too far away to even see. Not very helpful.

Sherlock fiddled with the bullet for a few more seconds before replacing it in his pocket and taking out his phone. For what must've been the twentieth time, Sherlock reread the text he was sent as the bullet pierced John's side.

" _I didn't want to get messy, but you weren't listening. You forced my hand, and I did try to warn you. Do I have your attention now, Mr. Holmes?_ "

They certainly did. The detail that he always got caught on was the 'Mr. Holmes'. Someone old fashioned, trying to be formal, someone who wanted to be dramatic. The first person who popped into his head was Mycroft of course, but it couldn't be him, why would he try to sabotage his own mission? Unless this was one of his little lessons about keeping in line...

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's head perked up and a nurse was standing in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Mr. Watson is just checking out now."

"Right," Sherlock stood up and took one last glance at his pitiful companions before following the nurse out.

Endless white walls bleached with sterile light are cut short by a dark brown reception desk. John was standing in front, talking to the clerk who had pink in her cheeks and uttered quiet giggles after John's every sentence.

"Glad to see you up and active again John."

He turned and smirked as he saw Sherlock approaching. "Me too. I'll be back to normal in a few days."

"Good good," Sherlock glanced at the smitten clerk. "Are you all set to go?"

John glanced behind him and smiled at the clerk who produced another giggle in return. Sherlock had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

"Yeah I'm good to go," John said turning back around.

The two of them walked down yet another bland hallway to get to the doors at the far end. "Flirting already? You were just shot and have been out of the hospital not even five minutes before you're kissing up to some girl."

"The girls love a heroic story, I couldn't help myself. If I see a pretty girl, I have to go talk to her, if she doesn't come to me first, that is." John grinned and winked at Sherlock. "You know what I mean, you must get that all the time."

"Get what all the time?" Sherlock asked disinterestedly as he opened the glass door to exit the hospital.

"You know, girls coming up to talk to you, flirting and such."

Sherlock chuckled, "Why would a girl come up and flirt with me?"

John looked slightly taken aback. "Well, you're a nice looking guy, brilliant, sort of mysterious, the girls love the mysterious ones."

Sherlock laughed out loud this time. "Do they really? Hmph, such a strange thing to find attractive. How do they know they're 'mysterious lover' isn't hiding something horrible? He could be a killer for all they know. That air of mystery should be a danger sign, don't you think?"

"I suppose. I've never looked at it that way. But who knows why, women are difficult." John tried to laugh it off but was obviously put off.

"Are they? I suppose I wouldn't know." Sherlock said, trying to end the conversation.

"You wouldn't know?" John was exasperated, "Do you mean to tell me you've never been with a women before?"

Sherlock inwardly sighed, so much for ending the conversation. "No, I have not."

"Wow. We need to get you laid Sherlock, maybe that will lighten your mood. Remind me to make it a weekend project after this is all over."

"I'll make sure I don't," Sherlock mumbled as he hailed for a cab. "I expect the doctor told you to lay off the case for a while."

"She did."

"And are you going to?"

"Not a chance." John grinned and got into the waiting cab.

"I thought not," Sherlock followed John and the pair made their way back to Baker Street.

 


End file.
